Perspectives
by Faint Praise
Summary: Dean is certain that Sam is planning to run away again. He's right, sort of. Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, they'd be getting therapy, lots and lots of therapy. Circa Dead Man's Blood/Salvation. Possible character death.
1. Retrospective

The three of them have been hunting together for about a month and as far as Dean is concerned, things are cool. Sam has stopped provoking their dad, and their father, knowing a good thing when he sees it, has refrained from saying a word about The Ultimatum. They're saving people, hunting things, and getting a little closer to The Demon every day. What more could a guy want? Well, besides a little breathing room, away from his brother.

"Come look at this Dean," says Sam, for the fifth time in the last hour. "There's this guy in Switzerland running a website compiling all the late middle-age . . . "

"Does it say how to gank the thing we're hunting today, Sam?"

"Well, no, but . . . "

"Then keep your geekboy discovery to yourself. Dad said all we need for this one is good old-fashioned iron. You find anything that changes that?" Dean almost immediately regrets his words. He doesn't mean to sound so harsh, and invoking their father's directives is _always_ a bad idea with Sam, but his brother is really overdoing it on the let's-bond-through-research kick he seems to be on.

Unfazed, Sam merely says, "Okay, I'll just add it to the bookmarks, then."

"Great," says Dean, who promptly volunteers to make a food run, lest he be subjected to a third (fourth?) lecture on effective categorization of bookmarks.

By the time Dean returns, so has their father. Balancing a cardboard tray in one hand, he enters the motel room warily, noting with some relief that whatever might have taken place between Sam and John in his absence has at least not resulted in blood spatter. To his surprise, he finds both remaining Winchesters hunched over the laptop, engrossed in the scintillating topic of . . . effective categorization of bookmarks.

"See, Dad? You can tag each link or document with whatever you think is important - by demonic origin, year of occurrence, victim profile, method of extermination, anything. Then you can search by tag and find patterns."

"That's great, son. It looks like something all three of us could be using. Make sure you show that to your brother."

Dean braces himself for a smug grin from Sam as he hands over a cup of coffee. What he gets is a shallow nod and a soft "Will do, Dad." It isn't exactly "Yes, sir," but it isn't exactly Sam, either.

* * *

John is burning the corpse of a black dog and Sam is rolling up his sleeves to display his lack of _Canis atrum_ lacerations when Dean realizes something important is missing.

He pauses for a careful moment before asking, "Where's your watch?" _The one Jessica gave you_ is left unsaid.

"Oh, I left it at Bobby's," answers Sam, unconcerned.

"But I thought. . . ," Dean's voice trails off. _I thought it was really important to you. I thought you said it made you feel like you could keep a piece of her with you._

Sam doesn't look up as he shrugs his hoodie back on. "Just for safekeeping, Dean. It could get lost or broken too easily, living the way we do. I wanted it out of harm's way, is all."

A perfectly rational explanation, Dean acknowledges.

Sam continues, "It's in the top drawer of the nightstand in the extra bedroom. I made sure Bobby knows it's there."

* * *

Dean reaches for his phone and remembers, that it, along with the EMF meter, had been fried by his close encounter with the most recent fugly. The aspiring storm god had been unable to conjure anything like a lightning bolt, but it _had_ been able to administer a hell of a shock. Dean is grateful there had been no standing water this time. "Sam, gimme your phone. I need to tell Dad we're gonna be late." He half expects Sam to tell him Dad could wait for five damn minutes, but he just hands it over without hesitation. Dean isn't too surprised that Dad is second (ICE2) in Sam's list of contacts - but he _is_ surprised to note that the list is a lot shorter than it was the last time he'd seen it. Sam has been keeping in touch with a lot of people from Stanford - well, at least ones who hadn't been questioned by the police over the St. Louis incident.

"What happened to your contacts?"

"What about them?"

"There used to be more." Dean remembers something. "Weren't you playing some online game with them? What was it called?"

"Words with Friends."

"Yeah, you were really into that, what happened?"

"Nothing happened, Dean."

Dean doesn't really think that's an answer, but at that moment the phone rings. It's their father, looking for them, so Dean takes the call and drops the subject.

* * *

Dean wonders what he's done to piss off his father. Why else would the man go on his own to interview suspects and leave his sons behind doing research? It's almost the way things used to be when they were younger, before . . . before Sam had left them. Old habits die hard, apparently. Well, except for the part where Sam and their father don't argue anymore. It's weird, Dean thinks, but supposes he should be glad. Isn't this what he's always wanted? He considers coming out of the bathroom, where he is currently hiding from Sam's repeated attempts to engage him in a discussion on search engine optimization. It seems like a small price to pay, if it means Sam is finally getting with the program. Hand on the doorknob, Dean stops himself. He remembers now, the _last_ time Sam was cooperative with Dad. It was during the months he was preparing to abandon his family for school. Rebellious, adolescent Sam had stopped challenging, stopped complaining, stopped mouthing off, and started doing a convincing impression of someone who would not embrace, but perhaps tolerate hunting. Dean and his father had assumed Sam was growing up, accepting that with high school graduation he would be hunting full time with his family. _Damn it_. That's why he's so gung-ho to share the research. He'd done the same thing before, trying to make Dean learn a bunch of the more obscure exorcisms. Dean had resisted, figuring he knew enough of the basics, and that Sam would be there if they ever needed the obscure ones. Sam had known differently and acted accordingly.

Things start to click into place. Sam is planning to leave again. No wonder he'd erased his school contacts. He wouldn't leave a trail that Dean could follow, not this time. Or maybe he really was through with that crowd.

After all, if he did go back to Palo Alto, Dean would find him easily enough. Washing his hands of Stanford would even explain leaving behind the watch. Maybe those memories were too painful to carry. Oh, sure, he'd tossed out the word "Stanford" back in Chicago, and hadn't that felt exactly like a grenade had been rolled into the room, but since then, he hasn't said anything. Dean realizes that the grenade had been nothing but a diversionary tactic.

If not Stanford, then where? Is he applying to some other school, or intending to do something else entirely? He could find some girl like that Sarah chick and just settle down somewhere. Whatever he's contemplating, there's got to be a plan. Sam is too methodical to do anything important without a plan.

Dean steels himself and leaves the bathroom resolving to figure this out, even if it means he's going to have to go along with the research gig for a while. Who knows, maybe he'll find something about Sam's intentions on the computer. What is it _this_ time, Dean wonders. He can confront his brother as soon as he works out whatever the hell it is that Sam thinks would be so much better than hunting with his family.

"It's about time, Dean, I was gonna send in a rescue team," Sam eyes him a tiny bit suspiciously. "Did you wash your hands? I just need you to see this one thing . . . "

* * *

A week later, Dean knows he's overlooked _something_, but he'll be damned if he knows what it is. He's successfully feigning interest in the research, enough that Sam leaves him unsupervised on the laptop. John had come in once and been visibly startled to find the elder son scrutinizing the computer while the younger stripped and cleaned the guns. The ex-Marine had smiled approvingly and praised them on doing a little cross-skills training. Sam hasn't left anything on the computer except for a hyperlinked index to Central and South American demons he suspects might be migrating north. There are no clues in his duffle, either. The last time he'd run away, he'd gotten overprotective about his belongings, no doubt concealing things like acceptance letters and bus tickets. If he realizes Dean is watching him like a hawk, he doesn't let on, going around as if he hasn't got a care in the world. Hell, the last couple of days, he's been downright cheerful.

One warm day around dusk, right after Dean volunteers to monitor the police scanner for any new incidents related to their current hunt, Sam announces he's going for a walk, saying he needs some time to himself. John lets him go with a reminder not to stay out too long, he wants to get an early start in the morning. Instead of pulling a bitchface, Sam smiles a little too brightly at both of them and says not to worry about him, he understands the hunt comes first. Dean grinds his teeth a bit and reassures himself that his brother's duffle is right where it should be and it's not as if Sam would go anywhere without at least the essentials. He's relieved to see that Sam, who had refused to carry so much as a hunting knife with him when he'd left for Stanford, tucks a pistol into the waistband of his jeans before walking out the door.

Dean listens in on the police radio band for about an hour, hoping for something interesting, but it's just a quiet night of petty human problems - an early evening car theft, a report of shots fired somewhere on the edge of city limits, nothing that has anything to do with the Winchester kind of thing.

Just as he starts to think about calling Sam, his own phone rings. An unfamiliar voice asks, "Is this Dean Winchester?"

He answers in the affirmative, sounding enough unlike himself that John casts a questioning look in his direction.

Suddenly there's no air in the room and boiling acid pools in his belly as a stranger says, "I'm calling from County General Hospital. No, I'm sorry, I can't give you any information over the phone. But you need to get here as soon as possible."

End.

**Reviews and concrit are welcome, emphasis on the "con."**

Author's Notes:

My first second fanfic (3rd posted, but 2nd written)

So help me, I've written death!fic. Maybe. Probably.

Yeah, Words With Friends is an anachronism here.

I had to add "gank," "fugly," and "bitchface" to my spellcheck dictionary.

Effective categorization of bookmarks is very important.


	2. Circumspective

The three of them have been hunting together for about a month and as far as John is concerned, things are fine. Sam has stopped provoking him, and John, knowing a good thing when he sees it, has refrained from saying a word about The Ultimatum. They're saving people, hunting things, and getting a little closer to The Demon every day.

Dean is on board - that goes without saying. His oldest son is 100% focused on the hunt - well, except for when he is focused on Sam. Four years have done nothing to change the dynamic between his sons - Dean is protective of his brother, perhaps overly so, whether there's call for it or not. Meanwhile, his youngest has done some growing up, and is finally becoming a decent hunter in his own right, his fighting skills nearly on par with Dean's. And although he isn't going to admit it out loud, John is secretly thrilled to watch Sam dedicate his Stanford-worthy brain to research for the family business.

They're going to need it, John muses, as he returns to the motel with all the local newspapers. He could have sent out one of the boys for them, of course, but the less they're out and about, the better. It's a fine line he's walking, unsure now whether they're safer with him or without him. As he'd gotten closer to finding his quarry, it had seemed best to keep his distance from his sons, even when it had meant ignoring their multiple attempts to reach out to him. But there was being practical, and there was being a father, and eventually he had given in to his instinct to keep his children where he could keep a close eye on them.

Dean's gone - for breakfast, according to Sam - since John can't bring himself to confine them 24/7. At least he knows Dean will seek the most direct route to satisfy his appetite, and won't have gone far. Meanwhile Sam, the one who has always chafed at confinement in grungy little rooms, appears totally absorbed in whatever he is doing on the laptop. While both his boys have tried to persuade him that they didn't need to get newspapers where they have wi-fi, John remains unconvinced.

John does ask him what he's doing, partly out of curiosity and partly just in the interest of maintaining the truce. As long as Sam is willing to give up struggling against the life they lead, John is willing to indulge him with respect to his little projects.

Sam glances up at him, through shaggy hair that is still too long for John's liking, as if gauging the sincerity of the question. John suppresses a sigh, knowing the kid's suspicion is warranted.

Apparently concluding the inquiry was genuine, Sam launches into an explanation of how he is organizing hunting information on the computer. He throws around a lot of words - bookmarks, tags, hyperlinks, metadata. John doesn't quite follow everything, but does as well as he can, grasping that what Sam is doing really does have a lot of potential, even if he's not ready to give up on his journal and newspaper clippings quite yet. Old habits die hard, but John has to agree that the traditional written journals aren't necessarily easy to make head or tails of. John is especially interested in the indexing possibilities, only half listening as Sam goes on to emphasize that hunters need a system where knowledge won't be lost, even if the original writer isn't around anymore.

* * *

They're deep in the woods, wrapping up a black dog hunt, since the regular, everyday evil continues right alongside the malevolent forces targeted specifically at the Winchesters, and it's not like John can pretend not to notice, not when there are people who need saving. Besides, he hopes that continuing normal hunting will help keep up appearances and throw off any demonic observers. He's just retrieved a can of gasoline from the car and is heading back into the forest when he overhears Dean, who is checking Sam for injuries - the boy had cut it a little close on this one - asking about a watch, apparently some gift from his girlfriend.

They haven't really talked about Jess. Nobody needs to say out loud that it's hardly a coincidence that Sam lost his girlfriend the same way that John had lost his wife. Sam wants answers, but John has none to offer. Giving Sam even a hint of the truth would open the gates to more questions, and John isn't risking it. Besides, Sam is still upset about her, and he doesn't want to make that any worse than it is. The sooner Sam gets over her, the better. It's not as if Sam's situation is really identical to John's. After all, Mary had been his _wife_ - they'd known each other for a decade, they'd gotten married, they'd had a home, children. Sam and his girl had been together for a span better measured in months than in years. He knows, he'd gone to Palo Alto more than once, kept vigil over his son as well as he could, and the two had only really been together since their junior year.

Not long at all.

Sam is resilient, he tells himself, he'll recover.

By the time he returns to the car, the boys are ready to leave, and while Dean seems vaguely troubled by something, he sure as hell wouldn't be sitting there calmly if Sam had been seriously injured, so John allows himself a moment of relief that Sam is unhurt, that for another day his sons are safe and sound.

* * *

They're supposed to meet up, the boys are late, and John automatically starts to call Dean, when he remembers that Dean's phone is out of commission, so he'll have to call Sam. He'd rather not - even when he and Sam are getting along, when they're on a job, he prefers following the chain of command as they always have, knowing Dean is keeping on top of whatever is going on with Sam. He's a bit relieved when it's his older son who answers the call. They

need to discuss the current hunt, and even though Sam is finally getting with the program, Dean is really the best one to talk to about that kind of thing.

* * *

John doesn't surprise easily, not in his line of work. Still, he wonders if some witch has snuck past the salt lines to inflict some kind of bodyswapping curse on his boys. Returning to the motel room, he's visibly startled to find his elder son scrutinizing the computer while the younger strips and cleans the guns. They must be getting _really_ bored, he suspects. He compliments them on the cross-training, which can't be anything but good news, and resolves that he's going to have to give them at least a little room to run sometime soon.

* * *

He _knows_ this town is clean, checked it every way he knows how, it's secure, for a couple of days, at least, nothing on their trail. So when Sam wants to take a walk, John has no reason to stop him and lets him go with nothing more than a warning to get back in time for a good night's sleep before the next hunt. God knows the boy needs to get out for a little bit, especially after declining to go bar-hopping with his brother the last two chances he'd had. Even knowing there shouldn't be anything supernatural in their vicinity, John looks on approvingly when Sam takes a gun with him. You can never be too careful.

John pores over his journal (he'll get to those bookmarks of Sam's eventually, he supposes) while Dean drinks a beer and listens in on the police scanner.

When Dean's phone rings and the call puts an odd expression on his son's face, it takes John a moment to place it. He's seen it often enough, too many times in Vietnam, and these days, on the people he's trying to help, when they're talking about the ones he was too late to save. It doesn't belong on Dean.

End Part II

Reviews/comments feed the beast.

A/N - If this chapter seems weaker than the last about what's going wrong - well, let's chalk it up to whose POV it is.


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